The Stranger: Part Two: Chapter Six
by Veromorphia
Summary: The Stranger by Albert Camus: It is Meursault's execution day, and the gaurd who's meant to lead him to the guillotine takes a liking to the antihero and offers him a second chance at life. In the face of utter pointlessness, will Meursault accept his off
1. Chapter Six

_Disclaimer:__ I did not write The Stranger.

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Note: This was a school project that I was particularly satisfied with. I hope you enjoy._

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**THE STRANGER  
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**Part Two**

**Chapter Six**

It was nearly dawn when I heard slow footsteps make their way toward my cell. My eyes opened lazily and I sat up from my cot. I knew, in that instant, that they were coming for me, and I braced myself for the inevitable. I did not have to tell myself that it would be quick or that I would almost definitely feel no pain; I did not have to remind myself that the people in the crowd were nothing—that dignity meant nothing—because these things went without saying, and without being thought.

"Monsieur," the guard said with a solemn nod, and I sensed something truly sad within his eyes, and a touch of whimsy, which was not as strange as the sorrow. One would think that after years in his macabre position, he would be immune to such things.

He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, but a single guard nonetheless. I reflected silently on the fact that they had sent only one. One man to restrain a convicted killer.

I stood up without nodding in return, and I reached the cell door just as I heard his key slide into the lock and then the door click open. He held up a pair of handcuffs and I instinctively turned around, putting my hands behind my back. There was something not quite right about the way the cuffs are slipped around my wrists. They were closed but far too loose. I was almost sure that I could slip out of them with very little effort.

The man began to lead me down the hall, his fingers around my wrists. "Monsieur," he says.

"Yes?" I responded dryly.

"You remind me of someone. Not your looks or voice, or even your despicable act, but your manner, Monsieur, your _soul."_

"Oh?" I said as we exited the prison. Even in the mild pinkish glow of the rising dawn, my eyes were pained. I had not been outdoors in quite a while.

"Yes, Monsieur." I didn't feel like talking now, to say the least, but what he was saying intrigued me. There was something devious in his voice, and something honest as well.

I saw the guillotine. It was a large and imposing machine, its huge, slanted blade glistening in the early morning sun.

"You remind me of a close friend, Monsieur, and to see you die would be simply awful. Do you know what it's like to mourn, to cry, to wish with all your heart that one tiny detail may have prevented the most horrible of occurrences?" He was talking about a lost love, I realized, love like Marie's for the old Meursault. I had no time for it, but I continued to listen, because there really wasn't anything else to do.

"Yes," I answered quietly so that the other guards—there were more outside—could not hear. "I have mourned for my life."

He stopped walking and so I was forced to stop as well. He leaned close so that I could feel his breath on the side of my face, and it sickened me slightly. "Run," he said. "Run, Monsieur."

He let go of my wrists. The handcuffs slipped free and fell to the ground. My heart began to pound with excitement the likes of which I thought I would never feel again. The other guards were still at least seven meters away. They had not yet noticed that anything was amiss.

I was faced with a decision. Though it was all meaningless, though I would have a ninety-nine percent chance of being shot down a very short distance from my current position, and though I knew that there was no point, that life was nothing and would end eventually whether or not it ended today, a part of my physical mind—my _human_ mind—cried out for this chance, for a few more minutes, for the feeling of the wind in my hair and the dreaded sun against my back and—only if I was implausibly lucky—the feeling of a woman in my arms again.

It was at that point that I realized that I could either run or not run.

And I ran.

The crowd gasped and the guards swore as I took off, nearly flying, quite literally running for my life. I heard pistols firing behind me, men trying to take me down. I heard them chasing me.

And then—and this is amazing—I outran them all. I ran off of the road, through allies and over fences, and then, when my heart felt as if it would rip its way out of my chest and my lungs felt like those of a dying man, I managed to compose myself perfectly and step onto a train which was just ready to take its leave. The door of the luggage car had been left opened. There, I collapsed, trying vainly trying to catch my breath.

Both heart and lungs were a long time slowing, and by the time I felt the train come to a stop, I was refreshed by the exercise. I had found more appropriate cloths, dirty and mysterious though they were, on the floor of the car, and I had already changed out of my fluorescent orange suit.

I hopped out and looked around. I hadn't been taken far. I calculated that I was miles from the prison but closer than I had been before to my old neighborhood, though I could have been wrong.

I began to walk, keeping away from the roads and sidewalks, and I realized before long that I was not heading toward my old apartment complex but to Marie's. Her door was unlocked when I arrived, but she wasn't home. I decided to wait.

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I was seated on the sofa when Marie arrived an hour later. The room was dark, and I was extremely still. She fumbled in the dim light, as her eyes were not yet adjusted, and soon found the switch.

When she turned and saw me, her face was already covered in tears. She gasped and put her hand over her heart, as if attempting to slow it. I said nothing, but I may have smiled.

"Meursault…?" she said timidly, approaching me at a slow pace, as if trying to judge whether or not she was still sane.

"Yes?" I said.

"She jumped at me and covered my face with kisses. "Oh, when you ran—well, I didn't know what to think! I was sure they had shot you down by now. I've been searching, but you were nowhere—_nowhere_—my love! Oh, you've come back to me. Lord, have I lost my mind!"

"No," I said simply, putting my arms around her and kissing her deeply, romantically. She did not resist. Apparently, no new Meursault had come into her life following the conviction.

Of course, I took her then. It had been a long time, maybe for us both, and she still loved me apparently, but she had not asked me if _I_ loved _her_ yet.

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When I awoke, Marie was already up and dressed. She was in the bedroom packing suitcases full of clothing. I did not say anything but slowly sat up.

She noticed this movement and turned to me with a smile. "We're leaving," she said, quickly folding a bright yellow blouse. I noticed when she set it into the bag before her that she was wearing the dress I had always liked.

"Where?" I asked.

"To Europe, to get married," she said, smiling brightly. "To Paris. It's too dangerous for you here."

"Oh," I said.

"Well, aren't you exited? Paris is a beautiful city."

I remembered that I'd had the opportunity to go to that same city months before and passed it up. "I've heard."

"Good. We're leaving today. We'll buy you a new wardrobe when we get there." I said nothing so she went on talking. "Oh, it'll be wonderful, Meursault. We'll be together in the most romantic city in the world. We'll be married. We can even have children. Isn't it wonderful?"

I heard what she was saying, and I understood that it was an exciting idea, but I could not bring my self to feel excited. The burden of my divine realization the day before weighed heavily on my mind. Last night I had been desperate, but now, when I took the time to stare at Marie and let my mind wonder, I felt listless, heartless and utterly empty.

"You're beautiful," I said to her, knowing it was true, but that somehow it did not matter—I did not care.

"Thank you," she beamed. She closed the bag she had been packing and went back to the closet. "Here," she said, tossing me something soft and black. "It's an overcoat with a high collar. You'll need to hide your identity until we leave the area."

I stood up, dressing myself and then buttoning the coat on top of it all.

Marie came to me and fiddled with the collar, pulling it up high. "You should have some sunglasses too," she said, "and maybe a hat…" She went back to the closet and returned to me with a pair of dark glasses, which she placed over my eyes. "It'll have to be enough." She picked up one of the suitcases. "Help me carry these please?"

I picked up the other two and she opened the door. As we made our way down the stairs, I realized that I didn't want to do this, that I saw no point in any of it. A stupid man like the chaplain would have said that I felt "remorse" over my act, but I felt nothing but an emptiness, and a full awareness of that emptiness which turned the world and all of its illusive wonders to a fine and lifeless dust.

But Marie was young and Marie was in love, and perhaps it was because of these facts that she didn't understand what I did next.

When we made our way out onto the street, we saw a single police officer questioning a young couple. We heard pieces of the conversation: "What did he look like?" "Dark hair…Dressed in an orange jump suit."

Marie flushed darkly and tried to pull me past by my arm, moving quickly and steadily. I pulled away from her, and then, without a final kiss on the lips or utterance of "Goodbye," I approached the officer and removed my glasses.

"Meursault!" she screeched, running after me.

The officer took one look at me and gasped. I put my hands before me in a gesture of surrender and he raised his gun. For just a moment, as I stared down the cold barrel of the weapon, the last of my human mind cried out silently in fear.

In that one last second, all I wanted was to be alive.

And then I heard a sound, a very loud sound, and I knew only darkness.

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_Note:__ Please tell me what you think._


	2. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Meursault died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. The days and nights seem to blend together when you lay in bed with heavy drapes pulled over your windows, perhaps awaiting the moment when your physical body wastes away and you become nothing—free of loneliness, numb to pain.

I've heard it said that you can never truly appreciate something until it's gone, and I didn't believe that until today. Sure, I loved Meursault, would have married him, born him children, and been the happiest woman in the world. But it wasn't until that cop pulled the trigger—until Meursault went down, bleeding profusely on the pavement, his handsome face a mass of grinded meat—that I realized how deep the roots of my love truly went.

When Meursault died, so did a piece of myself. Maybe the rational part, maybe the part that had time for anyone or anything at all.

When Meursault was killed, the officer told me that he would come to question me on Wednesday, and it had been…Monday then, I think. It might have been a day since then—since the moment when my life was brought to a screeching halt along with that of my mysterious lover—it might have been two. They might be coming for me soon. I can not have that.

I bring the blade to rest against the tender skin of my wrist, and without hesitation, I pull, creating a deep gash which opens my artery and makes me gasp. Quickly, before I lose feeling in that hand, I repeat this on my other arm.

Yes, they will come for me—today, tomorrow, maybe the next day—and they will knock. When no one answers, they will walk right in. And they will not find a lonely woman crying and cursing over the death of one whom they knew only as a murderer. They will find only a corpse, laying on its back atop the bloody quilt of her large bed. They will find her lifeless, staring at the ceiling, with eyes every bit as warm as those of my long lost love.

And maybe, for a just second, they will feel regret.


End file.
